


Musketeers Drabbles

by Tia_Pixie



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 250 word drabbles, Attempt at Humor, Brotherly Affection, Drabble Collection, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Multi, Tags to various episodes, now contains a few - gasp! - 500 word drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 10,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4941247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tia_Pixie/pseuds/Tia_Pixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of 250 words drabbles, mostly unconnected, centering on Les Inseparables and a few other familiar faces.  I'm trying for some happier ones but I don't think I'm well suited to them...<br/>#1 - Dog - Because being accepted into The Musketeers is not the same as being accepted BY The Musketeers<br/>#2 - Letter - Because a letter, however happy the words, is not always reassuring<br/>#3 - Splinter - Because sometimes 'Ow' is not enough and you need to shout at /someone/<br/>#4 - Cliffhanger - Because I really needed to throw someone off a cliff today.<br/>#5 - Drunk - Tag S1E08 - Because finally earning his commission was not the solution to all his worries d'Artagnan had hoped.<br/>#6 - Invitation - Because Athos looks so lonely, Aramis wants to be friends with everyone, and Marsac wasn't always a bad friend.<br/>#7 - Rescue - Because musketeers do not accept their own weakness lightly, but sometimes they really should.<br/>#8 - Failure - Because in some things, failure is the only option Aramis and Porthos will let Athos have.<br/>#9 onwards - because I've run out of space to do descriptions here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dog

**Author's Note:**

> I really needed to start writing again folks - like, REALLY. I've found over the past year or however long it's been since I last posted anything (apologies if anybody is waiting on anything...) that I spend all day writing fics in my head but when I come to write them down I can only manage about 1000 words before the words/ideas just dry up. I want to be one of those who writes 20,000 words on an intense emotional rollercoaster that is beautifully written and makes people want to stay up all night reading but unfortunately until that miracle happens I decided to just write SOMETHING. So I set a target 250 words seemed do-able and I've actually got a surprising amount of these stored up so I may as well post them. Hopefully one day at least some of them will get developed into full-length fics but in the meantime...
> 
> Please enjoy my meager contribution to fandom culture and leave a comment if you can - prompts, one word prompts, tell me what you had for lunch today, con crit, whatever you feel like.

“They call me your _dog_!”

 Porthos eyes the lad sympathetically as he overturns furniture and drops to his stomach to feel beneath his bureau for whatever has been nicked this time. He would offer to help, but suspects that it wouldn't be welcome right now. 

 “Could be worse,” he says, a grim smile twisting his face.

 “ _How_?”

 “All the shit you have to do because you're the youngest? The recruit, yeah? We've all been there.” He pauses, his eyes darkening. “You can imagine what they called _me_.”

 D'Artagnan freezes, slowly withdraws his hand from beneath the bed and turns to gaze up at him. His expression flits so suddenly from confusion, to outrage then to fury that Porthos almost laughs.

 “ _Who_?” The boy demands. Porthos is fairly certain that disclosing any names – no matter how much he might want to – will result in d'Artagnan dancing on the end of a noose and so shakes his head dismissively.

 “It was years ago.”

 D'Artagnan continues to look faintly disgusted then sighs and rolls onto his back. “It's just...when will they _stop_?”

 “When they see it's not true.” Porthos smiles, lends him a hand up until d'Artagnan is sat against his knees. “You know what you've gotta do?”

 “Mm?” 

“Next time Athos orders you about in front of 'em, tell 'im to go fuck 'imself.”

 D'Artagnan considers the potential repercussions of that option then groans, loops one hand around Porthos' leg and buries his face against Porthos' knee.

 “Woof.”

 Porthos pats his head.

 

 


	2. Letter

Athos stares at the letter even once he has finished reciting it. Slowly, _deliberately,_ he folds along the same lines as its author, thrusts it towards Porthos as though glad to be rid of it.

Porthos tucks it away close to his breast,  _safe_ . He clears his throat. “He sounds-”

“Well?” Athos not-quite-interrupts, the travesty of a smile flitting across his face. “Yes, I thought so too.”

Porthos would be grateful – comforted – to have seen it did it not make Athos' expression seem all the more haunted once it was gone.

“Nice of 'im to write.”

“Unusually considerate.”

Porthos stands and makes to leave. The world cannot stop turning even for Aramis, and his duty awaits.

“They're dying there, aren't they?” He asks quietly, pausing on the threshold. “That's why he wrote.”

Athos hesitates. Aramis is the fantasist; false platitudes and pretty lies coming easily – as in his letter. And yet, some deep, superstitious part of him warns not to speak his fears aloud lest it constitute a prophecy to be fulfilled.

Porthos goes without another word.

* * *

“He's coming back,” Porthos informs Athos without preamble, and Athos’ heart leaps pathetically in relief until Porthos continues. “He has to.” He raises plaintive eyes to Athos. “It's  _Aramis_ .”

Their eyes meet and Porthos  _knows_ , can see how much Athos wants to be  _useful_ .  _Comforting_ . It does not come easily but Porthos needshim to try. “Of course, he's coming back,” Athos agrees eventually.

Whether by Athos' prophesying or not, Aramis returns unscathed.


	3. Splinter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while. I've been without a PC for a bit.

They will never be able to look at d'Artagnan the same way again. From the moment they found him he has been cursing up a blue streak so wide that even Porthos is shocked.

"Oh God! Aramis, just get it _out_!"

"All in good time," Aramis soothes as he assesses the wound. The shard protrudes from the foot on both sides, its tip stained a sickening crimson.

"Just take it out!" d'Artagnan howls, body straining against Porthos' arms where he is holding him to stop the lad ripping it out himself. "Porthos! Lemme go!"

With an apologetic look, Aramis sets about cutting the soft leather from d'Artagnan's foot; the boot is ruined anyway but likely the boy will not see it that way.

"Keep him still!"

"I'm _trying_!" Athos leans more heavily on d'Artagnan's legs as Aramis begins to extract the fragment.

"Athos!" The name bursts from d'Artagnan on a sob. "Lemme go! You're a miserable, wine-soaked, _bastard_!"

"And me?" Aramis murmurs, eyes fixed on the wound.

"You?" The lad's chest heaves and Porthos smooths the sweat-soaked hair from his face. "You're a fucking _butcher_ , is what you are!"

"Me?" Porthos hums, his head atop d'Artagnan's.

"You're..." He chokes as Aramis finishes, and presses miserably into Porthos, "You're great."

Aramis wipes his hands, examining the offending wood with determinedly feigned nonchalance. "All this for a _splinter_?"

_'Splinter'_? D'Artagnan attempts to glare but in his gratitude, fails. "Sorry. That was... _Thanks._ Sorry."

Aramis winks magnanimously. "We've been called far worse, I assure you."


	4. Cliffhanger

Porthos forces himself to breathe through the agony even while his arms are almost wrenched out of socket. He's straining to hear any sign that help is at hand. But no; there is no one coming because when last he saw him, Aramis was crumpled – bleeding – and d'Artagnan, fearless youth that he is, was tearing off _alone_ after their attackers. He cannot think on either of them now though, because right now, he is literally holding Athos' life in his hands and _his hands are slipping._

"Porthos."

He bites back a moan, readjusting his grip as best he can. And feels his feet inching ever further forwards.

" _Porthos_ ," Athos says, more urgently this time. "This is madness, you know it."

"They're coming! I can hold you till then."

Athos' face twists – a travesty of a smile – but his eyes are soft – apologetic.

"Don't you dare!" But Athos' fingers loosen even as Porthos speaks and in snatching him up again, Porthos finds himself closer still to the cliff edge.

"Porthos." Athos' voice holds a command that was not there before. " _Let. Go._ "

Porthos shakes his head furiously, as much in denial as refusal. Then – miraculously – d'Artagnan is there, helping to heave Athos back over the precipice before returning to where Aramis is dazedly attempting to stand.

The hug Athos is rather expecting, but the sucker-punch that precedes it is a surprise.

"Don't _ever_ tell me to do that again," Porthos says fiercely.

Athos hesitates, something almost fragile in his gaze. "Understood."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really needed to throw someone off a cliff today...Sorry Athos.


	5. Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for one use of f******. 
> 
> Rough tag for 01x08 The Challenge.

The world is warm and fuzzy, the raucous din of the bar's other patrons faded to an only slightly deafening buzz, and, as he swishes it about speculatively, d'Artagnan can see he is less than halfway into this bottle. He may yet be able to drink himself better.

 “There you are!” A strong hand forces his down, and as he rolls his head to one side Porthos swims into view. “We've been looking all over...”

 “PORTHOS!” d'Artagnan latches on delightedly, generously ignoring that his friend has placed the wine out of his reach.

 “You're fuckin' _wasted_ ,” Porthos realises. His mouth pitches downwards and d'Artagnan emits a concerned whimper. “Hey, no...” he soothes exasperatedly, “S'all right.”

 “S'not,” d'Artagnan disagrees, shaking his head fiercely and sincerely regretting it. “Everything _hurts_.”

 Porthos' face turns soft, amused, and he lowers himself to squat beside him. “Well, next time you wanna sink an Athos-worthy amount of this rubbish, p'raps you'll think a bit harder, eh?”

 D'Artagnan scowls. That was _not_ sympathy _._ It _sounded_ like it, but it absolutely did not count.

 “Come on.” Porthos stands, gently but firmly taking d'Artagnan with him. “Let's get you home, kid.”

 Porthos valiantly holds him up as he stops to projectile vomit into an alley.

 “Sorry!” d'Artagnan calls after the unfortunate and piteously yowling tomcat. “Oops...”

 Porthos shakes his head, grinning. “You,” he says, continuing with d'Artagnan's arm slung around his shoulders, “are a bloody menace.”

 “ _I_ am a bloody _musketeer,_ ” d'Artagnan corrects.

 “Yes, you are.”

 “Yes, I am.”

 


	6. Invitation

He feels their eyes upon him, watches askance the argument as the younger of the two approaches.

“Drinking alone, Athos?” He inquires brightly. “It is _'Athos',_ isn't it?”

“It is.”

“You didn't go with the other recruits?”

Athos sighs.

“You didn't care to join them?” Aramis tries again.

“I prefer to keep my own company,” he explains acerbically, levelling the younger man with a cool stare. Aramis either ignores the hint or is too consumed by his own vanity to know rejection when he hears it.

"Tag along with us? I've an appointment I must keep, and Marsac," - he nods towards his companion – “cannot be trusted to drink alone.”

Marsac, looking fondly exasperated, rolls his eyes.

“He's a terrible flirt, you see,” Aramis confides sotto voce.

Based on what little he knows of the pair, the words _'pot'_ and _'kettle'_ spring to mind. Athos glances towards Marsac, raises one brow.

“He conceals it well,” Aramis adds.

Marsac slings an arm about the younger man’s throat from behind, pulls him back playfully. "He isn't interested, _mon ami_  – your charms have failed. Leave him be."

Athos' gratitude knows no bounds.

Aramis pouts, seeming genuinely hurt.

“Aramis is _incapable_ of being alone,” Marsac informs Athos, entirely unconcerned by the sulking, “so assumes everyone else is too.”

“You'll miss us when we've gone tomorrow,” Aramis declares haughtily. He doffs his hat, sweeping an elaborate bow. “But rest assured, my good Athos, we shall raise a glass of that god-awful Savoyan wine to you.” 


	7. Rescue

D’Artagnan’s legs tremble, the sweat drenching his shirt as he continues on his dogged way. He pauses, clutching at the wall beside him as he weighs his options. None are favourable. He is closer now to the training yard than to his room, therefore making the yard with its dozens of fellow musketeers to assist him the logical but devastatingly humiliating choice. But his room seems now so far away!

 Why had he left? A wilful need to demonstrate his miraculously restored good-health? He does not feel healthy now – only foolish and sick and shaky and-

 Suddenly his legs give out and he braces himself for the inevitable impact.

 But none comes.

 “You, _Whelp_ , are quite the escape artist.” An arm darts about his stomach from behind and pulls him close as _Aramis_ rests his chin on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

 D'Artagnan could – probably even does – sob in relief. He turns in Aramis’ arms, pressing his face against the older man. He is humiliated. _Mortified_. An errant child fetched home from the woods. But he is _safe._ Aramis will allow no further harm to him, nor allow any prying eyes to see him in such disarray.

 “All right,” Aramis murmurs eventually. “Back to bed where you belong, yes?”

 D'Artagnan nods, too grateful for embarrassment as he is swept off his feet like a new bride.

 “I was only gone five minutes!” Porthos explodes the second he catches sight of them, face frantic.

 “Regrettably, _Mon Ami_ , young d'Artagnan has learned from the best.”

 


	8. Banished

“If you would see me punished, then for pity's sake I beg you flog me and have done!”

Treville, who had hoped the visitor might leave if ignored long enough, looks up at that.

“ _Flog_ you?” He repeats, stunned. The agitated pleading falters, the young man's eyes downcast even as Treville rounds the desk towards him. “Aramis,” he murmurs, drawing close a chair and ushering the youngster into it with one hand on his shoulder, “what possible reason can there be for that?”

Aramis eyes him askance.

“What have you done?” Treville demands, more gruffly than he intends and Aramis _flinches_. He softens, gentles his grasp. 

The soldier heaves a tremulous breath. “You no longer trust me to serve – _I understand_.” he whispers. “But you have all but _banished_ me from the garrison, I – ”

“Because you are _wounded_!” Treville interrupts exasperatedly. Shame floods him as realisation sinks in. He has indeed kept him away – banished him – but only because he could not bear to look at Aramis and be reminded of all those he has killed. Never had it crossed his mind that... He wants to _shake_ the lad for this undeserved self-condemnation. But Aramis does not need his fury. “ _Mon fils..._ ” - Aramis chokes, his shorn head lowered so his Captain cannot see his face - “this was not your fault.”

Aramis grips his hand desperately tight, gasping as though emerging from water.

“ _Thank you,_ Captain.”

His heartfelt gratitude brings bile to Treville's throat.

“Please...do not thank me.”

 


	9. Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Purely a bit of self-indulgent crap I'm afraid. I just really like d'Art rebelling against the little things and Aramis being an all too willing accomplice. 
> 
> And cats. I quite like cats too.

“Put that back where it came from. _At. Once_.” Athos' voice holds all the disdain of a mother attempting to navigate the market with a belligerent and sticky-fingered child.

 “No.” D'Artagnan holds the sour-looking feline closer, scowling reproachfully. “Why?”

 “You cannot keep a cat at the barracks,” Athos says, pointedly ignoring their companions' amusement. “Put it back.”

 D'Artagnan raises his chin. “I happen to have a rat problem.”

 “Find a rat catcher.”

“I have one. His name is ' _Cat_ '.”

“It has the mange.”

 “He does not!” Still, d'Artagnan holds it out and examines it dubiously before folding it back into his arms. “ _You_ have the mange.”

 “Put it –”

 “Athos, really.” Aramis winks at the Gascon. ““What difference does it make to _you_?”

 A fair point. Athos sighs. “Fine! Keep it!” He feels instantly compelled to wipe the triumphant smirk from the boy's face. “I'm certain the Captain will be delighted.”

It works but Athos' own triumph is short-lived. Given their friends frowns, and d'Artagnan's resentful glare he might just have suggested they drown the damn thing.

"He has strays enough as it is,” he points out, but nonetheless reaches out one hand to the scruffy fur, his distaste plain.

 D'Artagnan grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like ' _keeps you three_ ', but Athos lets it pass with a cool glare as he turns. “You _cannot_ name it 'Cat'.”

 “S'only fair, you know,” Porthos consoles as they walk, Aramis and d'Artagnan lagging behind and positively fawning over the thing, “After all, _we_ kept 'im.”


	10. Cold

“If God had given me tits,” d'Artagnan begins conversationally to no one in particular, “I'd have frozen them off by now.”

“If God had given you tits...” Porthos, sitting up for first watch, gives a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows, “You and Aramis would be a lot warmer right now.”

Aramis turns to the young Gascon with a wink. “I'm not precious, are you?”

D'Artagnan grins, shuffling forwards into the outstretched arms, but is soon shivering again. Even with his nose buried against the curve of Aramis' throat he can find little comfort.

“Thank you all for your help,” Athos says tartly as the fire finally begins to crackle and they all eagerly drag their bedrolls closer.

“Knew you 'ad it in hand.”

“Didn't want to get in the way.”

Settling beside Porthos and the bundle of cloaks that is Aramis and d'Artagnan, Athos gives the Aramis part a pointed kick. “And your excuse is...?”

Aramis smiles enigmatically but rolls so that d'Artagnan lies between the two of them. D'Artagnan would protest the manhandling, the being used as a human shield, but Athos – his blood being at least two thirds wine – runs warmer than Aramis and d'Artagnan is only too happy to abandon Aramis in favour of him.

Aramis is predictably outraged “Your breasts, _Traitor,_ could have been carved by God himself and I still wouldn't touch you with a barge-pole.”

D'Artagnan's face briefly emerges, tongue extended in childish impudence. “I wouldn't want you to touch me with y _our_ barge-pole.”

 

 


	11. Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of violence/non-graphic torture and implied character death. (Nothing graphic, and certainly nothing worse than in the show)

He has the power to end this.

 Break. Talk.

 A blade caresses him again, its sting ow a familiar burn against his skin.

 End it.

  _Talk_ _._

 “All right.” Thus broken, d'Artagnan is released. He cannot face Aramis, cannot face his condemnation.

 He hears Aramis’ anguished fury, his struggling, then the crunch of splintering bone. Silence.

 “Your Gascon is wise; d'you see what _silence_ buys you?  What it bought your friends?” Their captor wrenches Aramis’ head back, hand twisted in his hair and knife pressing a crimson line across his throat.

 A blood-sodden rag is hurled between them, with it a familiar pendant. Aramis’ face contorts, his body near-convulsing with rage beneath the blade.

 D'Artagnan's world narrows. There is only the stench of blood, Aramis’ inarticulate grief, and his heart thundering even as it tears asunder.

 He ends it.

But he does not talk.

 

* * *

 

“D'Artagnan?”

D'Artagnan moans. Consciousness returning slowly, he blinks, certain that he must still be dreaming. “You’re all right?” His hand is warm in Athos’, and Porthos hovers nearby.

 “Better than you,” Aramis murmurs, recapturing d'Artagnan’s attention with an insistent tug of the needle but quickly soothing the sting with his thumb. “How are _you_ feeling?”

 He cannot answer, cannot look at his brothers. Is not worthy of it. His eyes burn against the disappointment that is surely concealed beneath their affection. He would have said _anything_ to make it stop – for all of them.

 “Yes,” Athos says eventually when d'Artagnan does not speak. “We are all right.”


	12. Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tag to S01/E09 Knight Takes Queen

“Stop it.”

Aramis looks up in surprise as Athos kneels beside him. “Stop what?”

“Wallowing. Your self-pity is dangerous and frankly, unattractive.”

Aramis blinks.

“Don't look at me like that. We both know precisely what you've done.”

“You might be a little more sympathetic.”

“Sympathetic?” Athos' eyes flash. “You have _killed_ us all! Not to mention _damned_ her and the child!”

“Please don't say that,” Aramis implores him, quietly horrified. He turns his eyes back to the altar, his gaze hesitant as though afraid of being struck down where he sits. “All sins are forgiven when we repent.”

“Indeed? How many Hail Marys does one say nowadays for _bedding the Queen_?”

Aramis shudders in reply and Athos relents.

“Have you told anyone?” He asks softly. “A priest?”

“Are you insane?” Aramis says in an undertone, smiling serenely at the Dom as he passes. “I cannot speak of _this_ in a confessional. They're all in Richelieu's pay, damn them.”

“Damn the priests?” Athos smiles a little in spite of himself.

“ _All_ of them.” Aramis asserts, then sighs, lowering his head to folded hands. “Athos, what am I to do?”

“Stay away. From her _and_ the child.”

“I can't,” Aramis moans miserably.

“ _Hang then_!” Athos hisses, patience spent. “And take us all down with you! Me, Porthos, d'Artagnan – the whole damn regiment!”

“I'm sorry.”

“You are not.”

“Athos,” Aramis says, utterly sincere. “For your involvement, I _am_ sorry.”

They turn back to the altar and do not rise for a long time.

 


	13. Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of these last lines are getting a bit hokey...

“The _children_ are playing,” Athos informs him wryly, eyeing him askance as Porthos approaches. From their vantage point, the source of the racket is clear. In the shimmering pool below, d'Artagnan, entirely submerged, is busy sneaking up on a seemingly oblivious Aramis.

 “He knows...” Porthos murmurs, leaning against the tree beside Athos and settling in to watch.

 “Mm.” Athos smirks, shakes his head. “Oh, d'Artagnan...You poor unsuspecting fool.”

 Several things happen at once. As d'Artagnan explodes from the water (with much yelling and splashing) Aramis ducks below it, yanking d'Artagnan's legs from under him and tipping him back into the water with a startled yelp.

 Porthos cheers as Aramis turns and bows to them only to be felled by d'Artagnan leaping on his back. They wrestle for a moment and Aramis somehow finishes straddling d'Artagnan's neck, the younger man gripping his ankles and turning to them with a dazzling smile.

 “Come join us!” He calls, Aramis swaying precariously atop his shoulders.

 “I hardly think so.” Athos' disapproving words do little to hide his amusement.

 “Come on...” Porthos teases, already removing his uniform and starting down the hillside. Athos follows at a more sedate pace, his exasperation evident.

 With a whoop of excitement Porthos takes a running leap, sending a tidal wave surging into the younger two. Aramis' arms windmill desperately until, with a curse, he topples backwards into the water. Thus unbalanced d'Artagnan falls, too surprised to shout but emerges grinning.

 “For _God's sake_...”

 The water, Athos discovers, is marvellous.


	14. Secret

“Athos told me,” Porthos murmurs, lowering himself to sit beside Aramis upon the garrison steps. “’bout what happened at that convent, I mean.”

Aramis raises his head abruptly.

“D’you mind?” Porthos' hand clasps the back of Aramis' neck as he shudders.

“He had _no_ _business_ telling you.”

“Don’t be like that. He's worryin' is all.” Porthos sighs, his efforts going ignored. “Why didn’t _you_ tell me?” He asks reproachfully.

Aramis' resumes his hair-pulling, shrugs wretchedly. At his muted distress, Porthos softens.

“You and her,” he begins gently, “it was special, I get that. But what happened…you’re not to blame. You know that, right?”

Hands stilling, Aramis turns exhausted but incredulous eyes on him. “If not me, then who?”

“The rebel bastards who _murdered_ her?” Porthos suggests, taking Aramis’ face in both hands and turning him until their foreheads meet. Aramis stops breathing: _Isabel_. His eyes close as Porthos grabs his trembling body into his embrace. “ _Merde_. Aramis, I’m so sorry.”

“ _No_.” It takes everything to force himself away from his brother's comfort but it is cowardly to draw relief from Porthos when he does not know the guilt he is soothing. “I cannot – Porthos, I have done something! Something foolish. _Dangerous!”_

“Yeah?” Porthos' face turns wary. “Tell me.”

“I _can’t._ ”

A pause. “Dangerous, you said?”

Aramis nods.

“Could I help? If I knew…”

“No.”

Porthos' mouth twists unhappily. “S'there gonna be trouble?”

“Probably.”

Porthos nods, considering. Finally, he shrugs. “I'm still sorry.”

This time Aramis does not – _cannot_ – pull away.

 

 


	15. Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One instance of bad language because d'Artagnan is grumpy Gascon.

"I'm not happy." Porthos shivers as he attempts to wrap his cloak tighter.

"Me neither." D'Artagnan sniffs and shoves his dripping hair out of his face for the umpteenth time.

"You do surprise me."

They are on parade. Nearby the King and his entourage make merry beneath a canopy, entirely oblivious to everything but their own affairs. The rain, which has been threatening for days, is pelting down in great squalls that have soaked them to their very bones.

"I don't think I've _ever_ been this wet in all my life," d'Artagnan says, then sniffs again.

"Need I remind you that _we_ are here simply because Treville labours under the misapprehension that we have any control over you?"

D'Artagnan has the grace to look vaguely ashamed of himself. "Still...you can't blame _me_ for making it _rain_."

"Just a little water," Aramis says bracingly, the effect ruined by the tremor that racks his body as he does so. "You know what they say about April showers and May flowers."

"Yeah, an' I hate them an' all – make me sneeze all the soddin' time!"

Unable to suppress it any longer, Athos shudders. Violently. "Aramis, those flowers of yours had better be good."

"Better be fucking _magical_ ," d'Artagnan adds darkly, surreptitiously attempting to duck further into his shirt.

They snap to attention as Treville approaches, his collar upturned against the downpour.

"Gentleman," he greets, suppressing a smile as he is met with four equally imploring looks. "The King has taken pity on you...Dismissed."


	16. Word

"You are being entirely unreasonable," Athos informs his friend sourly from the bed. His body feels swollen, and though he is aware enough to know where he is, he cannot recall how he got there. What he _is_ certain of however, is that the light outside proclaims it to be near midday and the Captain was expecting his report on their return to Paris last night.

"So you have said." Aramis shrugs, entirely untroubled by the glare currently boring a hole in the back of his head. "But until I am satisfied of your condition, you, my friend, are going nowhere."

"I am perfectly capable of making it to the garrison and back, if the Captain orders me to rest – "

Aramis interrupts with a derisive snort. "If you can make it to the _door_ I will consider your recovery miraculous."

"But you would allow me to leave?"

Aramis turns to him, eyebrow quirked in challenge. "My word on it."

"Very well." Athos nods and heaves himself to his feet, ignoring the way the world darkens as he does so.

It is slow-going; his limbs do not cooperate as he would like but one glance at his friend's indulgent exasperation is enough to spur him on. Aramis' panicked look as Athos' fingers close around the door-handle is gloriously satisfying until Aramis wraps one arm around him and half-carries him away again.

"You gave your word!"

"Yes, well..." Aramis smiles easily as he eases Athos back onto the bed, "I lied."


	17. Interruption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff/OOCness maybe? I just wanted them to be happy for a minute, okay? Pre-series 1, post-Savoy.

Athos meets Aramis' landlady in the vestibule, her expression fearful.  Her reasoning becomes immediately apparent as from his apartment, Aramis yelps and the floorboards shake as something heavy topples over.  His hand flying to his sword, Athos hesitates at the door, afraid to intervene where he is unwelcome.  Aramis' _desires_ are often...violent.

 

“C'mere, you-”

 

Athos retreats, surprised.  _Porthos?_ There is a screech as something heavy skids across the floor.

 

“Porthos – please!”  Aramis sounds _frightened_ and there is a thud as a body collides against the nearest wall, muffled thumps as the struggle moves away again.  “ _Brother_!  If you have ever loved me, _stop!_ ”

 

Athos has heard enough, storms through the rooms intent on ripping his quarrelling friends apart.  He is prepared for blood.  For Aramis' rooms in utter devastation.  He is not prepared for what he finds.  Finding them in the bedchamber, Athos freezes in shock.

 

Aramis is writhing like an eel, pinned beneath Porthos as his fingers dance along the younger man's ribcage, and yells like a banshee when Porthos finds _that_ spot.  His head thrashes until -

 

“ATHOS!”

 

Porthos turns, grin freezing in consternation to be caught... _playing_.  Aramis, entirely accepting of his own ridiculousness, struggles as if Porthos will murder him.  He sags in relief as Athos approaches slowly. 

 

“Athos – help!”  He _sounds_ desperate still, but his eyes are brighter than Athos has known in over a year. 

 

“Porthos...”  Athos raises one brow.

 

Porthos frowns, daring him to disapprove of their fun – of Aramis' laughter. 

 

“As you were.”

 

 

 

 

 


	18. Chase

He has to get away – _hide somewhere_.  Heedless of the chaos left in his wake, d'Artagnan races through the crowded streets towards the garrison.  _Left...left again...dead end!...right._  His knowledge of Paris grows vaster every day but never has it been so sorely tested as today. _Right...straight ahead... down the alley...left._ His heart races.  He feels _sick_ by the time he allows himself a second's pause.  He pats his pocket to ensure the missives are safely tucked away and then is off again.

He cannot blend so seamlessly into a crowd as does Athos, is not strong at hand-to-hand like Porthos, and neither can he be so inconspicuously conspicuous as Aramis.  But he is fast.  And he is yet small enough to fit through gaps others could not hope to.  He stands a chance.

He is within shouting distance of the garrison now, could summon reinforcements if he had any breath.  He pauses, watching for any sign of his pursuers then -

“Not so fast!”  A large hand clamps down upon his arm and he is spun abruptly to face his assailants – surrounding him with a predatory glint in their eyes.  “Hand 'em over, Boy!”

D'Artagnan cannot help it.  It's so terribly unfair. 

“Oh come on!”  He protests, barely resisting the urge to stomp his foot.  “I was _so close_ this time!”

“And yet,” Athos drawls, briefly touching his rapier-tip to d'Artagnan's heart, “You're still dead.”

“Our condolences,” Aramis offers solemnly.  “We'll send flowers, I promise.”

“Better luck next time, Kid.”


	19. Books

For so long his discomfort has been deliberately self-inflicted, but the looks upon his friends' faces make his discomfort at their presence in his lodgings all the more worthwhile.   He intended only to replace his shredded shirt before returning to the garrison.  He does not realise they have followed him until he feels eyes upon him in his parlour.

 

“Be honest, Athos,” Aramis begins, only half jesting and eyeing him up as if he were his next conquest.  “Are you some sort of nobleman in hiding?”

 

They seem to mistake his horrified silence for insult and are quick to apologise.

 

“It's just this is...It's...” Porthos trails off, bending down to pluck a book off the shelf and opening it reverently.

 

“ _Fantastic_.”  Aramis concludes for him, slightly open-mouthed as he too examines Athos' library.

 

The breath he has been holding leaves Athos in a huff of relieved amusement.

 

“You may borrow one, if you like,” he offers, shrugging into his unspoiled shirt and replacing his uniform.  “Borrow them all in fact.  I've no use for them.”

 

Aramis' book – a tome he, Athos, has perhaps opened once – closes with a snap.

 

“No use?”  Porthos asks incredulously.

 

“I've precious little time to sit and read,” Athos explains disinterestedly, “But please, help yourselves.”

 

He has not brought many with him – a fraction really – so even living as he does, it strikes him as oddly endearing that they should be so overwhelmed by his meagre possessions.

 

“Admit it, you're the king's bastard brother.”

 

“Not quite.”


	20. Leaving

 “It’s true then.”

 Aramis turns to the door as Constance enters. 

 “You’re really leaving?” 

 “To join the brothers in Douai,” he informs her.  “The abbot was a friend of my father’s and they always had such plans for me.”

 He pauses, inhales deeply for a moment.  The smile he casts her is not a happy one.

 “My father would be so relieved.  I was never any different, you see?  Even as a boy.”

 Constance says nothing to that – neither comforts nor condemns him and he is grateful for it.  She takes the bundled clothes from him and folds in silence a while until –

 “No, not that one.” 

 Constance turns to him in question.  He takes the shirt from her, lays it down. 

 “I’m leaving it for d’Artagnan.”

 It’s good.  Too good for a monk, even one without orders.  And it wouldn’t be the first of d’Artagnan’s shirts to have been donated by his brothers – always, of course, with the intention of bettering his fashion sense.

 “For Athos,” Aramis murmurs soon after as he hands her several books.  Later a few others for Porthos.

 They work in silence then, until the sparse rooms are quite empty.  Finally, Constance looks up in surprise as Aramis places his beloved pistols atop d’Artagnan’s pile.

 “Those damn things of his are dangerous,” he explains.  “It’s only a matter of time before one of them goes off in his face.”  He traces over the intricate designs, then straightens abruptly and turns away.  “Those will keep him safe.”


	21. Lonely

"As good as family," Constance says, watching Aramis refill his cup clumsily, "is not _as good as_ family, I'm sure. But are you all right?"

Aramis downs his drink, grimacing, then glances at her. "Shouldn't 've said that. Not true."

Constance flushes, wincing as if he has struck her. They were friends of a sort before, but they are closer now – she _thought_. She knows she is likely a replacement for d'Artagnan and the others. But it _stings_ to be rejected with so little attempt at softening the blow. She is too taken aback to even slap the ignorant little...

"Just didn't wanna hurt Pauline," he continues, rubbing at his head and reaching for the bottle again. "D'nt wanna to… _replaced_."

"Oh."

Affection – more potent for being so abruptly interrupted – swells warm in her chest and she crosses to settle beside him. She takes the bottle from his loose fingers and sets it aside, hushing his protests then slapping his hand away as he lunges for it anyway.

" _Ah_! You've had enough!"

That tone works on cadets, husbands, _and_ recalcitrant ex-monks. Good to know.

Aramis pouts, rubbing his hand but settles. Most women would have their drawers around their ankles ready to _comfort_ him, she knows. But she is not most women. Not to him. And thankfully, d'Artagnan is not most men. Aramis flops against her, guileless and vulnerable.

"Miss them," he mumbles. "Don't... _fit_."

"Of course, you _fit_ , you fool," she huffs, stroking hair from his face. "We're your _family_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting Season 3, and I just have a lot of Constance & Aramis feels, okay?


	22. Beginning

Porthos looks up as the stable door flies open.  A familiar young man stumbles in and, eyes closed, feels his way slowly down the wall to sit upon the straw scattered flagstones.  Porthos watches, one hand unconsciously patting his mare's flank in comfort, and feeling strangely as though it is _he_ who is intruding.  The horse huffs and stomps, drawing a startled glance from the newcomer.  They both freeze.  


“Hey,” Porthos says softly into the tense silence that follows.  


The younger man blinks, continuing to sound as though every breath is a conscious effort.  That won't do at all.  Porthos remembers a little of Aramis _before_ and though they've never officially met it pains Porthos to see him so _frightened_.  Having dug Aramis from the corpses in Savoy himself Porthos thinks it only his right to feel a little protective.    


“The Captain wants me to spend as much time as possible with 'em...get used to ‘em, I guess,” Porthos explains casually, returning to his grooming.  He leaps back as the horse suddenly tosses her head.  “This one's a bit skittish though.”  


“I know the feeling.”  


Aramis’ voice is hoarse, the words slow but Porthos catches the flicker of a smile.  He laughs, and Aramis’ smile widens to something a little more promising – embarrassed, regretful, but genuine.  Amidst Porthos' determinedly light prattle, Aramis eventually unfolds himself and comes to lean against the stall beside him.  


When Porthos leaves that evening (and each one thereafter), it is with Aramis at his side.


	23. Shiver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So technically, all of these drabbles fit into the same time line. But since this references at least one specific chapter then for the context I would recommend reading 'Invitation', this one, then maybe 'Beginning'. But none of them really require each other to make sense. 
> 
> This set immediately post-Savoy.

 

Athos does not go to Savoy, laid up as he is by injury, but Porthos tells him of it.  Both still lodging in the garrison dormitories, Porthos seeks out Athos, bottle in hand and ice he cannot shake chilling his bones.

 His right arm still bound, Athos sloshes wine into cups and drains his before speaking.

 “Survivors?”

Porthos is silent for a long while, then, “Two – possibly.”

 Athos frowns.

 “We only found one of 'em,” Porthos explains. 

‘ _Only found one’_.  Desertion.   Christ.

 “Who?”  Athos is surprised to find himself reeling through names – as if he knew them, _cared_ for them, as if it would _matter_ if he had.

 “Aramis and...and Marsac.”

  _Aramis, laughing, joking with_ Athos _.  Marsac smiling, exasperated, indulgent._

_Aramis.  Marsac.  Alive._

 “Which one did you-”

 “Aramis.”  Porthos frowns, then glances at him apprehensively.  “They were _friends_ , right?”

 _‘_ “Yes, they-” he stops.  “Yes.”

 Friends. It seems so trite, so _inadequate_.  He and Porthos are ' _friends',_ or something like it.  

' _Aramis is incapable of being alone’._

 _Fuck._   Athos nods, clears his throat.  

 “Marsac... _left_ him?”

“Looks like.  S'all Aramis'd say anyway.”

Porthos tells him then, in faltering tones, of how they found their one survivor.  How they loaded their carts and realised one 'corpse' still breathed.  How Porthos and Treville himself had dug through the bodies to heave Aramis from that _Hell_.

“Don't think he even knew who we were,” Porthos mutters into his lap, shaking his head.  “Poor bastard.”

Porthos is a warm line against his side, but Athos shivers.


	24. Bored

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been feeling really ill this week, so obviously everyone else has to be ill/injured as well. (When I say 'everyone'... I have written one for all of them but I'm not posting them all right now.) And as we all know, doctors make the worst patients (Aramis, not me).

_“_ You are _the most_ appalling patient I have ever had,” Athos informs his recalcitrant ward, depositing Aramis back on the bed.

 “You are not a physician, Athos.” Aramis crosses his arms, ever the resentful child when kept abed.  “You have no patients.”

 “I've certainly none for you.  Drink!” Athos presses tonic against Aramis’ lips, holds it there insistently.  One hand clasps Aramis’ neck – whether to steady him or prevent retreat Aramis is not sure but, as his stomach rebels against the foul-tasting brew, he is grateful for it nonetheless. “What _possessed_ you?”

 “I was _bored_!” Aramis protests, the excuse feeble even to his own ears.  “There's only so long one can spend staring at walls.”

 “Well, had you broken your foolish head open it would obviously have been for a worthy cause!  We’d have borne your _coffin_ easier for it, I'm sure!”

 Aramis winces.  It was thoughtless, he sees that now; his friends cannot always be at his side during his convalescence – especially after more than a week of tending him already. 

 “I'm sorry.”

 Athos shakes his head.  Impulsively, he reaches for Aramis’ hand, squeezes it between his own.  Aramis' grip is warm and strong.But _Christ,_ they almost sent for a priest less than three days ago!

“Is it so much to ask,” he begins, eyes burning with lingering grief and exhaustion, “that you simply _rest?_ ”

 Feeling horribly guilty now, Aramis is quick to agree.

 “You had better,” Athos warns darkly. “Next time I shall set d'Artagnan on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm running out of these drabbles or rather I'm running out of ones that are in a postable condition. So if anybody has any one-word prompts please stick them in the comments and I will do my best. :)


	25. Honour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer one this time - twice the length! - set early ish between S2 and S3. I know they wouldn't be going to deliver death news to every family, but let's just say this guy came from near the border.

“That was a good thing you did,” Porthos says as he and d’Artagnan set off back towards their camp.

 “I lied to them.”

 “You think it would’ve been easier on ‘em – knowing the truth?  Knowing how long it took for ‘im to go?”

 D’Artagnan shakes his head.

 “He wouldn’t have wanted ‘em to know.”

 “I didn’t realise you’d _asked_ him!” 

 “Fine!”  Porthos stops and half turns.  “Let’s go tell ‘em their son died swimming in ‘is own piss and sick, and crying for his mama!  No?  Then shut up and take it when I say you did good!”

 

* * *

            

 “Careful,” Porthos warns in an undertone as Athos stands to greet them. “Kid’s got one on ‘im about Pelletier.”

 With a sinking heart, Athos nods and braces himself.

 “Is this what happens?” d’Artagnan demands, throwing himself onto the bed without so much as a ‘hello’.  “No matter how much we suffer, all anyone says is that we died honourably?”

 “What more would you want said of you?”

 “It doesn’t even mean anything, Athos!  That boy died because there was nobody there to take care of him – he _suffered_ for a week!  And I’ve just told his parents that he died painlessly.”

 Athos leans against the tent post and watches their young friend. “That was commendable; you spared them a great deal of anguish.” 

 “That’s what I said.”

 D’Artagnan snorts but says nothing.

 “Wouldn’t you rather hear that I died with dignity than alone and in agony?” Athos asks.  “Isn’t it easier that way?”

 “It still happened.  You’d still be dead,” d’Artagnan points out, turning to look at him.  “I’d rather have the truth - I doubt there’s anything that would make it easier anyway.”

 Athos holds his gaze for a moment, caught off guard. 

 “No,” he says eventually, “I don’t suppose there is.”

 “Just don’t say I ‘died honourably’ or quickly if I didn’t,” he huffs bitterly, scowling again.  “Constance deserves for you to be honest – and so do I.”

 

* * *

 

                      

 “He still takin’ it all to heart,” Porthos worries as he and Athos sit playing cards in the dim light.  “He can’t keep grieving for every single one of ‘em – it’ll kill ‘im.”

 “But he’s learning,” Athos murmurs with a glance towards d’Artagnan, passed out on the pallet behind them.  “Pelletier was a particularly bad one.”

 Porthos grunts in agreement then suddenly throws his cards down.

 “He’s right though.”  Porthos passes a hand across his face.  “‘Died with honour’ – is that what we’re doing here?  Really?  Dyin’ covered in our own filth with a hundred others’ blood on our hands is honourable?”

 Athos surveys his cards a little longer then downs them also, just as a boy appears at the tent flap to request him elsewhere.

  “We’re at war.” Athos stands with a sigh, and dons his uniform.  “And we’re soldiers.”

 He is almost to the door when Porthos speaks softly.

 “We don’ have to be.”

 Athos freezes but doesn’t turn.

 “Porthos…I- Do not _ever_ say anything like that in my presence again.”

 

 

 

 


	26. Plastered

Of the things Constance Bonacieux is expecting that morning, opening the door to have a complete stranger fall inwards with it is not one of them. She stands, frozen with shock, as he mutters something incomprehensible into her foot.  The stench of alcohol and the taproom is unmistakable.

 “Hello?” she calls as loudly as she dares – she can only imagine the gossip were any of the neighbours to hear and come to look.  “You need to get up,” she informs him matter-of-factly, crossing her arms.  “You can’t sleep here.”

 To emphasise her position, she steps back and allows the stranger’s head to fall with a ‘ _thunk’_ onto the floorboards.  He does not seem to mind.

 “Right,” she says to herself, and marches upstairs to where the water basin still awaits emptying.  Returning, she stands over him and says in her sternest voice, “My husband will be here at any moment.”  Jacques, in fact, will not.  “This is a place of business.  Get up!”

 The man grumbles but remains unmoving.

 “Fine.”  And she dumps the water out.

 He comes awake cursing her with the most clearly enunciated expletives she has ever heard.  The sight of him, looking at her with murder in his eyes, hair plastered to his pale face, and dripping balefully should certainly not make her want to laugh.

 “You have to go.” 

 “I-“ he pauses, swallowing a belch.  Possibly more.   “Madame,” he begins, schooling his face into neutrality with some difficulty.  “Might I trouble you for a towel?”

 


	27. Stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with the Constance & Aramis feels... (and there are more where this came from). God, Aramis is a melancholy bastard.

“Thank you for your letters,” Aramis murmurs, a week or so after they return.  “I’m sure I didn’t deserve them.”

They are in Constance’s parlour, both mending clothes in the pale pre-dawn light.  Her fingers falter over the shirt in her hand.

 “You’re welcome.” 

“Why did you stop?”

She frowns. “You never replied.”

He sews in silence for a moment, then, “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.”

Her first instinct is to be annoyed.  She must have written to him half a dozen times after he wrote begging for news of his brothers, and yet she received not a single one in return.  It soon softens to exasperation.

“Of course, I did, you idiot!”  She watches the surprise wash over his face, followed by regret.  “What would you have told me if you had?”

“Stories,” he admits with a sad smile.  “Not all of them true.”

She takes up a pair of breeches and tuts at the state of them, then prompts, “Like what?”

He thinks on that briefly, his brow furrowed, then glances at her.

“Brothers Sebastien and Marc force-feeding me gruel, to make you pity me,” he says with a sniff.  “Something about Île de Ré, to give you hope.  Athos loosing a goat inside Treville’s office, to make you laugh.”

“It would have!”  And she does.  “The lie is _fairly_ obvious though.”

 “Mm, I’m actually quite fond of gruel – and of Sebastien too.”

She hesitates, then, “I wish you had.”

Aramis nods.  “So do I.”

 

 

 


	28. Wondrous

“He’ll have his man here collecting his belongings before the week is out – my hat on it.” 

“Serge said he’s the finest swordsman he’s seen.”

“ _And what_?”  Marsac ducks swiftly to avoid the arc of his friend’s rapier.  “He should be talented – what else has he been doing all his life?”

“Not learning the art of conversation, certainly.  But Treville likes him.”

“He doesn’t deserve to be here.”

“Oh hush,” Aramis orders cheerily.  “He’s hardly the first; besides, I’ve no quarrel with nepotism.”

Marsac tuts.  “You can hardly deny it’s served you well in the past.”

“Jealousy does not become you.”  They circle one another for a moment.  “Treville merely recognised greatness when he saw it.” 

“I’m sure your family connections never crossed his mind.”  Marsac dives forwards, jabbing at Aramis.  
  
Aramis parries, grinning.  “A happy coincidence.” 

“Well, some of us _earned_ our commissions rather than buy them with Papa’s money.”

“Marsac, you wound me!”  Aramis pantomimes injury even as he feints to one side to avoid just that.  “On my honour, not a _sou_ changed hands.”

“Really?” his friend says, unimpressed.  “What was it then that marked you for France’s finest regiment?” 

“Devastatingly good looks.”

Marsac laughs despite himself.  “And this was important to the captain?”

“Of course!  You forget: we musketeers were _decorative_ until Montpelier.  Truly, it’s a wonder we’ve a proper solider amongst us.”

“I’m flattered.”

Aramis pauses, head cocked to one side, puzzled.

Marsac throws his arms out, bowing.  “Did you not just call me wondrous?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sure your family connections never crossed his mind." I believe I am right in saying that in the Dumas novels, the Treville and the lads are all in some way related (cousins and nephews ring a bell?). And I therefore have half a mind that, although not blood related, Aramis at least is connected with him - possible through the marriage of a sister - and that this may or may not have played a part in his initial consideration for a commission. And Marsac has a bit of a chip on his shoulder.
> 
> "we musketeers were decorative until Montpelier" - I may be mistaken, and I am certainly bending history here, but I recall reading something somewhere that more or less said the musketeers were just there to stand and look pretty at court, and /occasionally/ do a bit of fighting. Aramis refers to the Seige of Montpelier, a Huguenot dispute which would have occurred in the first year of the Musketeer's formation.


	29. Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Aloredd.

Constance wakes to a cold bed.  There is a moment – as there has been every morning since her husband returned – where she forgets that he is home.  The moment passes though and she frowns.

This is not the first time.  Four times she has woken alone to discover d’Artagnan has sought comfort in Porthos or their captain.  ‘ _It’s an adjustment_ ,’ Aramis assured her, his gaze shadowed, when she was brave enough to bring it up.   _‘What he has seen, what he has…done - It takes time, and Athos and Porthos…understand.  It’s something only they share._ ’ 

That doesn’t make it easier.  But the world is quiet, sky still inky black outside, and she lies a while, incomprehensibly resentful of a world that has scarred her magnificent boy in ways she can never begin to know. 

The sound of a chair scraping in the parlour startles her.  She rises and goes to investigate.

“d’Artagnan?”  There is a sharp intake of breath, his slumped figure ghostly in the pale moonlight.  “Charles?”

He raises his eyes to her.  He looks  _broken._

“Those people,” he begins haltingly, looking away as she approaches, “whose lives were… _decimated_.  It wasn’t the Spanish.”

“What?”

“I mean- It wasn’t  _always_ them.  Constance, we-  _I_ _killed-_ ”

He breaks off, gasping.  As she embraces him, he buries his face, clings like a child.  She feels her nightgown growing wet beneath his face. 

"I saw Treville,” he says eventually, swallowing down more sobs, “he was so  _proud._ He- he called me a  _hero_!”


	30. Manners

 Aramis glances up from his book and nudges Athos awake as Porthos wanders into the yard. 

 “How was it?” he prompts when Porthos slumps onto the bench beside Athos and takes a generous mouthful of wine. 

 Porthos says nothing until even Athos gives a noise of curiosity.

 “I burned my mouth.”

 “Pardon?”  The others exchange a glance.

 “Right.”  Porthos straightens, splays his hands out with the implication of a enthusiastic narration.  “So, there’s soup right?  An’ it comes out an’ I wait for what’s-his-name to tuck in before I do, yeah?”

 Aramis nods.  “Yes.  Good.”

 “An’ nobody’s talkin’ to me, so I figure I might as well get started while they’re all lookin’ elsewhere.  But it’s _soup_ an’ it’s bloody _hot_.  An’ you said not to blow on it!” he adds accusingly at the end. 

 His friends stare blankly back at him and Porthos growls. 

 “I couldn’t take a drink ‘cause I’d hate to _inconvenience_ my hosts by y’know, _choking_ to death in the middle of their bloody dinner.  So I just sort of…  Stop laughin’ - s’not fuckin’ funny, Aramis!  They think I’m an idiot because I _cried_ when Madame Graillet was tellin’ us how hard it is to find good servants!”

 “You cried?”

 “My eyes were waterin’!  My mouth was scalded!”

 “Ath-Athos,” Aramis chokes, dabbing at his own eyes, “to think we worried!”

 “You endured physical _pain_ rather than inconvenience your host,” Athos says, topping up Porthos’ drink.  “There is no quality more necessary at court than that.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a silly one. Much as I adore Porthos joining the musketeers and bringing himself up to societal expectations (mostly), I also quite like the idea of Athos and Aramis going all 'My Fair Lady' on him. Anyway, I settled for mostly Porthos teaching himself, with some tips (and, in Aramis' case, friendly p***taking) from the other two. 
> 
> And 17th century French dinner etiquette was bizarre - literally, if you drink too fast and choke then you can kiss your next invite goodbye because half-choking to death at somebody's dinner party is plain rude. And don't blow on hot food (okay, I got told that one growing up too but still...)


	31. Scared

He’s thought of leaving before tonight.  But tonight the blood on his hands is so great he feels like he is bathing in it.  

They can’t bury the bodies fast enough. 

 They’re starving, all of them, and exhausted. 

 The war is never-ending.

 

* * *

  

He should have brought his brothers with him - by force if necessary.  In time they would probably have thanked him for it.

 

* * *

 

 

The camp, though never truly quiet, is hushed as he trails his way back to his tent. 

“Where were you?” is d’Artagnan’s greeting, pale and gaunt.

“Call of nature,” he lies, and tosses an apple over.  “Found this though.”

The younger man watches him, uncertainty shining in his eyes, and does not eat.  Porthos forces a smile nonetheless and settles himself under his blanket.

 

* * *

 

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan whispers seconds or hours later, “are you ever- I mean, do you ever get…”

“What?”

“…Scared.”

Times stops.  Porthos is falling, falling, falling with nothing to catch him. 

“Porthos, ‘m’scared,” comes his brother’s voice again, terribly small.

“C’mere.”  They grip each other, foreheads resting together as d’Artagnan fights back hopeless tears, Porthos with him.  “I am scared,” he confesses, as much to finally admit it as to offer comfort, “every _damn_ day.”

D’Artagnan sucks a breath.

“Coward,” he accuses with a breathless laugh.  He nuzzles against Porthos’ shoulder though and, utterly exhausted, finally sleeps.

 Porthos thinks of how far he got tonight, how easily he had abandoned them.  Thinks too of coming back.

 “Yeah,” he agrees into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happens right? He leaves? Idk. Possibly non canon-compliant...


	32. Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tag to S1E05 The Homecoming - I regret how Aramis-centred this seems to me....
> 
> If you've given me prompts, I thank you. I am trying to write them but for now you get the old, dusty ones that have been waiting months.

Porthos tenses as Aramis joins him.  There is quiet for all of thirty seconds before:

 “Keeping silent is not a skill I am gifted with.  Won’t you please say _something_?”

 “I’ve got nothing to say.”

 “Hit me then!”

 “I don’t _want_ to hit you, my friend,” Porthos sighs heavily.

 “But then… But how are we to-“ Aramis breaks off, looking utterly desolate.  He casts his gaze around the crowded taproom never settling on any one thing before returning it to his friend.  “I can’t apologise for saving your life,” he says in an oddly small voice, “I won’t!”

 Porthos shakes his head.  “An’ I’m not askin’ you to,” he points out, exasperation creeping in. 

 Aramis’ expression turns hopeful.

 “But Charon was- He was…” Porthos swallows hard against the grief he has so carefully kept at bay – for Charon, for the child he had been, for the man he had become, for what might have been if only Porthos had made him and Flea leave with him.  “He wasn’t my _enemy_ , Aramis.”

 “Those were not the actions of a friend,” Aramis says, fire in his eyes.

 “People like Charon – like I was – can’t afford _friends_.  There’s the ones you run with, an’ the ones who’d kill you for scraps, an’ sometimes they’re the same people.”

 “No honour amongst thieves, hm?”

 Porthos scoffs darkly.  “Couldn’t afford that neither.”

 “Tell me what I can do,” Aramis implores after a moment, placing his hand atop Porthos’.

“Just-” Porthos draws away, “give me today, yeah?”


	33. Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set between S2 and S3. There will eventually be one 'in between' one for all of them...

She notices him long before he does her.  Disappointingly, there is only him to notice.  Constance hovers, admiring the general splendour until eventually she sees him glance her way.

Whatever Athos is saying is not interrupted for a second by his spying her, but his face does something peculiar.  It takes a moment for her to realise that he is fighting a smile.  She is both touched and rather proud that Athos – reserved, stoic Athos – might be so pleased to see her that he is not only smiling but seemingly incapable of  _not_ doing so.

The men’s discussion continues for a while until finally Athos excuses himself and starts towards her.

“Madam d’Artagnan, I-“

He is cut off with a grunt of surprise as they meet rather harder than either had anticipated, when she half-flings herself at him as he lengthens his strides with sudden, unconcealable purpose.

His arms remain stiff at his sides, and she begins to retreat, afraid to have overstepped.  But suddenly, he raises them to hold her tightly.

“ _Constance_ ,” he says on a breath, sounding relieved, and happy, and unbearably weary.  He recovers, and as they part he barks a reprimand at a passing page, gawping openly at their reunion. 

“Captaincy suits you,” she comments, only half-teasing.  He is so _different_.

“It has had too,” he admits – a little bitterly, she thinks.  He sighs and shoots her an apologetic look.  He shakes his head.   “But what is commanding a regiment compared with controlling friends like ours?”


	34. Hat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Aloredd, who prompted 'hat'.
> 
> Pre-series. Not sure when exactly - year or so after Savoy maybe?

There was a reason, Athos thinks, why he had resisted Aramis’ overtures of friendship for so long.  Unlike Porthos, who has only the very vaguest of memories of Aramis _before_ , Athos distinctly remembers why he had refused.

Aramis, without the shadow of Savoy, is a _nuisance_.

And Porthos is no help whatsoever.

“My hat!” Aramis laments, holding up what remains of it.  “Athos, it’s _ruined_!”

“And this is my fault?”

“It was your horse!”

“It was your hat.”

“It’s ruined,” Aramis repeats, scowling as though Athos had done it deliberately.

“Aramis,” Athos grates, glaring as Porthos loses his battle with laughter.  “Please get back on your horse.  Treville is waiting.”

This Aramis does, albeit reluctantly, all the while muttering to himself like a mutinous child.  Porthos draws up alongside, nudges him. 

“If you’d stopped takin’ it off to make ‘ _come-to-bed’_ eyes at every damn girl, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“As I have repeatedly tried to teach you,” Aramis sniffs, “proper manners cost nothing.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, a sudden hardness to his tone, “unlike new hats.”

Aramis pouts and turns instead to Athos.  “It took me months to buy that hat – _months,_ Athos.  And your dratted horse had to go and stamp all over it!”

Roger shifts restlessly, if Athos were inclined to whimsy, he would say ‘guiltily’.

“I shall buy you a new hat,” he offers when he can bear Aramis’ genuine upset no longer.

“With the feather?”

Athos, with great difficulty, does not roll his eyes.  “With the feather.”


	35. Remembrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure when, might be pre-series, late season 1, or possibly even during season 3. Basically I have no idea.

 “You’d have liked him,” Aramis says, a little wistfully,

 Athos snorts before he can stop himself, and Aramis blinks and drops his gaze at once.  He surveys the contents of his cup for a moment, then,

 “You _would_.”

There’s something brittle in his voice, and in his face – something that speaks of barely controlled emotions lying just below the surface.  Athos sets his cup down and leans forwards. 

“Tell me?”

Aramis looks up so quickly he might have been pulled by a string.  He watches Athos warily, afraid of any further insults to Marsac’s memory.  Laying a hand upon his friend’s forearm, Athos smiles tightly.

“Tell me.”

 Something that looks heart-wrenchingly like gratitude lights Aramis’ eyes

“He…would have entertained you,” he says after several false starts.  “He knew books, and business, and the _filthiest_ poetry – my best verses are mostly his, you know – and whenever I- he...”

“He what?” Athos prompts eventually.

Aramis frowns as though Athos has spoken another language, as though he didn’t even realise he himself had been speaking. 

“He erm…”  He swallows, and stares blankly at where Athos is still thumbing against the bare skin of his wrist as though he has only just noticed it.  “He _hated_ you.”

Athos raises a brow and Aramis smiles, a little guiltily.

“He nearly disowned me after I spoke to you.”

“Well,” Athos drawls, before his eyes stray to the scar he knows lies beneath Aramis’ hair.  His flippant retort dies in his throat.  “Thank heavens he did not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just have a lot of Marsac feels, okay? It was meant to be Porthos rather than Athos, but it turns out he hated him too much. So, Athos.


	36. Chapel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something happy for once. Roughly 8 mths post S3 (which I still haven't finished >_< ) 
> 
> Wondering just how many times in the course of my various writings people have said "Athos" in italics.....

“Praying for good weather?” a wry voice sounds from behind him. 

Aramis laughs in surprise, concludes his recitations. 

“For many things,” he confesses, accepting his friend’s arm as he rises.  “I didn’t hear you come in.” 

“Apparently not.” 

“You came alone?” Aramis asks. 

“As requested.  You are certain about this?”

“ _Athos_.” 

“I agree you haven’t much choice in the matter now,” Athos continues mildly, “but I seem to recall being offered the use of your horse – it seems only fair that I do the same.” 

Aramis shakes his head, grinning.  “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, momentarily serious.  “Though I can’t help but regret that this is another of my secrets you’ll be forced to keep.” 

“I’ve borne witness to everything else; I could hardly miss this,” Athos remarks.  

A side door opens and, Constance at her side, Anne emerges from the vestry, hair loose and dress draping over the unconcealable swell of her belly.  At first, she has eyes only for Aramis but, catching sight of Athos, she smiles. 

Athos leans in, speaking very quietly as they approach, “I must ask-” 

“Of course, you must.  But forgive my not answering.” 

“You reckless fools.”  Spoken without heat. 

“Monsieur le Comte,” Anne greets, offering her hand.  “Athos.  We have missed you - you _must_ attend court more often!” 

Athos’ bows, his feelings on that matter betrayed only by a tightening around his eyes. 

Constance beams.  “My husband would cheer.” 

The men laugh, and Anne takes Aramis’ hand, smiling.  “As would mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Going to the chapel, and we're gonna get..............# 
> 
> There was a rumour, I believe, that Anne of Austria had secretly married her First Minister, Cardinal Mazarin. Since the show sort of replaced Mazarin with Aramis (as Richelieu had already died) I see no reason why they shouldn't have a super secret wedding too. Plus, the show just removed Philippe from history so that needed rectifying but within enough time that he could still conceivably be Louis' son.


	37. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still with the Marsac feels. With added Porthos & Aramis ones. Bit of Athos. And d'Art. All the Muskefeels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this really requires any of the others... Athos might make more sense if you've read Remembrance, and I guess while you're re-reading maybe Scared?

_Somewhere on the Franco-Spanish border_

D’Artagnan shifts, his face pinched as he attempts to ease the burning in his gammy leg without drawing any attention.  He catches Porthos looking, and raises his chin.

“I’m fine.”

“I know.”  But he keeps his eyes on his brother a while after that.

There are some things that Porthos knows.  Knows in his _bones_.  The sun, whether he wants it to or not, will rise in the morn.  D’Artagnan is _not_ fine, but will throw himself into every conceivable pickle anyway.  The stars will come out.  Sunrise, sunset.  Jean de Marsac was a deserter, and a coward.

And he is no better.

 

* * *

  _Paris_

Aramis pauses at the gate, half-turns as though to leave then casts his eyes to the heavens as he hesitantly enters the cemetery.  Porthos nudges Athos, and they turn to watch their friend’s approach.

“I shall take my leave,” Athos says, with one hand upon Porthos’ shoulder.

He agrees but Athos remains at his side until Aramis joins them.

“I’ll be honest,” Aramis says slowly as he withdraws a bottle from within his cloak, “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Athos takes the bottle and holds it appraisingly to the light, raises one eloquent eyebrow.  “Are you certain?”

“Well, it has been four years.” Aramis remove his hat, and nods once to the mound beside them.

Athos looks to Porthos, who shrugs once.  Indifferent. 

“Don’t lose your wits,” Athos warns, pressing the bottle back into Aramis’ grasp and turning to leave them.  He hesitates, as though he has forgotten something, then touches both hands to Aramis’ cheeks for a heartbeat, some unspoken message passing between them. 

There is silence after he leaves.  Not a comfortable one at that.  There comes the swilling of liquid and the reluctant squeak of a cork, and Aramis steps forward.  

“To-” he hesitates, glancing over his shoulder with a small frown, “- you.” 

He pours a generous glug of brandy over the earth at his feet, then takes a mouthful himself.  Turning, he crosses the short distance to the low wall and settles himself against its crumbling mortar, his gaze distant.  With a final nod at their silent companion, Porthos follows.  He takes the bottle when it is offered, and they pass the bottle between them, silently, as the brandy wards off the worst of the chill from the cold earth.  He wonders what Aramis might have said had he been alone.  Hopes - selfishly - that it would have been kind, but knows it should not have been.  

“Payin’ my respects,” Porthos explains after a while, when the liquor has loosened his tongue.  Too much perhaps; it feels like a confession.  

Maybe it is. 

Aramis goes very still for a moment, and Porthos – waiting for the inevitable accusation - feels his eyes upon him though neither has turned. 

“My dearest Porthos,” Aramis murmurs eventually, bringing his head to rest upon Porthos’ shoulder.  Then, as the breath stutters in Porthos’ chest and he bows his head, Aramis takes his hand. 

And Porthos lets him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're sick of this by now, but I'm still not any further with S3 so to my knowledge (she says, having not seen this bit either) Elodie is the only person who knows of Porthos' brief desertion. If that's wrong then, shit. But if not...Well. Not any more.


	38. Aid

"Easy, pup," Porthos murmurs, ashen face swimming into view as d'Artagnan fights his way into consciousness. He gently replaces the cool cloth upon d'Artagnan's forehead, who shies away from it, shuddering.

"'m cold."

"No, you feel cold." A weight at his side tells d'Artagnan that their Captain has joined them, the hand upon his good shoulder confirming it.

"Cold," d'Artagnan persists, the word near lost as his feeble squirming upsets his wound. He can feel the stitches holding him together – rough but sturdy – and is grateful for them, and for the hands bracing him. "You all right?"

"Yeah, me an' Athos are just fine."

So he waits, and waits a little longer, panics, then finally remembers. Porthos notices, as he always does.

"Back later," Porthos huffs, and stands without waiting for an answer. Once he leaves, Athos picks up the abandoned cloth, pressing it to d'Artagnan's overheated skin.

"You were asking for him," Athos admits quietly after a moment. "You begged for his aid."

The wooden post of the tent above him begins to blur and swim. He feels his throat growing tight. The familiar ache returns, along with it the guilt of having reminded them. Athos glances towards the door through which Porthos had disappeared, and looks for a moment so utterly defeated.

"We did too. He should be-" but he breaks off.

D'Artagnan hears the thought nonetheless: He should be here. Aramis should be here.

"Stop getting shot," Athos says instead. "People will think me careless."

"People?"

"Constance."


End file.
